


starry eyes, blurry eyes

by witching



Series: you've been like a light [10]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety, Best Friends, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Heart-to-Heart, Insecurity, Kissing, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Martim Week 2021, Martim week: club/pub/bar, Martim week: identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: “Hey,” Tim says, knocking his shoulder into Martin’s to pull his attention. Martin looks away from his hands wrapped around his glass and up at Tim’s face, his brows pulled together with just a bit of concern, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, because he can see Martin drowning in his mind, of course he can.A matching little smile spreads on his face, even as Martin shakes his head dismissively, not wanting Tim to worry about him or his problems. Tim just narrows his eyes and sets his jaw, and Martin can’t take the pressure of Tim staring him down, so he relents within seconds."I don't think I really know myself, you know?” he says, cursing himself internally even as the words leave his mouth.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: you've been like a light [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668694
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	starry eyes, blurry eyes

**Author's Note:**

> just a heads up there is a very brief and vague mention of homophobia here. it's all speculation and nothing at all happens, it's one little blip in martin's internal monologue but i thought i should warn for it just to be safe

_starry eyes, blurry eyes_  
_feeling so intoxicated_  
_worried eyes, i'm open wide_  
_take me so up and down  
and if you make me feel in love, then i'll blossom for you  
if you make me open up, i'll tell only the truth  
_

// carly rae jepsen, 'no drug like me'

* * *

One of these days, Martin tells himself, he will learn how to drink the right amount. It’s not his fault he never learned; he had neither the time nor the freedom nor the friends to socialize him in that area, but now he’s a proper adult and he can never seem to find the line until he’s crossed it. Sometimes it’s relatively harmless, but sometimes it leads to bad things, or things that seem good at the time, but end up looking bad in retrospect.

Right now, in this pub, he feels pretty secure in the knowledge that Tim won’t let him do anything too stupid, but that just gives him more time to think about all the things he shouldn’t have done on other nights like this. He tries not to think about Jon – that wasn’t his doing, and he hadn’t even been drinking that much, and he’s still not sure if he regrets it. So he’s four cocktails in and lost in thoughts that go back farther and cut much deeper than a fumbling kiss after one glass of white wine.

“Hey,” Tim says, knocking his shoulder into Martin’s to pull his attention. Martin looks away from his hands wrapped around his glass and up at Tim’s face, his brows pulled together with just a bit of concern, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, because he can see Martin drowning in his mind, of course he can.

A matching little smile spreads on his face, even as Martin shakes his head dismissively, not wanting Tim to worry about him or his problems. Tim just narrows his eyes and sets his jaw, and Martin can’t take the pressure of Tim staring him down, so he relents within seconds. 

"I don't think I really know myself, you know?” he says, cursing himself internally even as the words leave his mouth. It’s the truth, it’s exactly what he’s been thinking about, but he didn’t mean to be quite so honest. He takes a breath, swallows, clears his throat. “Like, I gave all my formative years to my mum and the institute, and I never got to become a person." 

Frowning, Tim puts a hand on Martin’s forearm, warm and comforting. "You're a person,” he says with a fierce conviction. “A really good person, I think. Dare I say, one of my favorites."

Martin rolls his eyes in a fond, long-suffering manner, putting as little weight behind it as possible so that Tim knows he’s actually grateful and not annoyed at all. There are easier ways to convey that sentiment, he’s fairly certain, but none of them are coming to him readily, so a convoluted display of affection it is. It takes him a few moments of thought before he even remembers that he’s meant to respond. 

"Sure, but who am I, really?” he asks, a hint of a whine in his voice. It’s almost comical when juxtaposed with the gravity of his words, but Martin is too far gone to see the humor in it. “I feel like I built my whole sense of self around serving people, and now it's like I don't exist unless I'm doing something for someone else."

"You're Martin," Tim says simply, shrugging one shoulder. “You can categorize yourself into whatever social descriptors you want, heaven knows I could tell you a dozen communities that you belong to and how those intersecting experiences affect the way you navigate the world, but you’re more than all of that. You’re you.”

Trying and failing to suppress another eye roll, Martin leans almost unconsciously into Tim’s side. “Social anthropology won’t help in this case,” he replies, gently teasing. “I’m not having  _ that  _ kind of identity crisis. I just – I don’t think I know who I am, separate from who I think I should be, or who I’ve been out of necessity.”

There’s a beat, perhaps a beat and a half, where Tim’s fingers tighten on Martin’s arm, his face passing through a dozen equally indecipherable expressions before it settles on something soft and fervent. "You prefer writing poetry to reading it,” he tells Martin, his voice low and full of feeling. “You prefer reading plays to seeing them. You never make a bad cup of tea, but you can't cook to save your life.”

It’s possible, though unlikely, that Martin’s cheeks are hot as a result of the alcohol. He gnaws on his lip, avoiding Tim’s intense gaze for fear of giving away too much, or maybe melting into a puddle on the dirty pub floor. Tim has that effect on him sometimes, when he gets all serious and sweet like this. “You don’t have to do that,” Martin mumbles, so low that he’s sure Tim can’t hear him, but they know each other too well for Tim not to get the gist of it.

Of course, that’s never stopped Tim from saying whatever’s on his mind. He rubs his thumb over Martin’s skin, painfully tender, and continues as if uninterrupted. “You snort when you laugh hard enough, you can't decide on a middle name, and you have the strongest work ethic of anyone I've ever met,” he says, all very matter-of-fact, without pausing between each item on his list, like these are all things he knows with such a bone-deep certainty that he doesn’t even have to think. “You help people because you're fundamentally kind, not because you feel like you should or because you want anything from them. You have an oddly picky sweet tooth, you hate the smell of roses, and you care about making the world a better place."

Martin’s throat is tight, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. He has to swallow and clear his throat a few times before he can manage to ask, strained and breathless, "Are you finished?"

"Almost," replies Tim with a grin, and it's not as reassuring as he probably intends it to be. "I can't forget to mention that you're also astoundingly sexy. Like, just outrageously hot. It should be against multiple laws, honestly."

"Alright, that's enough of that," Martin decides, now very sure that his burning face is entirely thanks to Tim. "And enough of this," he adds, plucking the beer from Tim's hand.

Tim must be really far gone, because he doesn't even protest the loss of his drink, just leans into Martin's side and murmurs hotly in his ear. "Let me take you home, baby. Come home with me. Please." 

Raising an eyebrow at him, Martin says, "You're drunk, Tim." 

A scoff gives away Tim's thoughts on the matter right away, but he still answers with words just to drive the point home. "Obviously. You’re  _ far  _ drunker," he points out, and then repeats intently, "Come home with me." 

"You know I will," Martin placates him with a smile. "I just don't want you getting any ideas."

"On my honor, I don't have a single idea in my head," Tim swears solemnly. "Except that I would like to be the big spoon tonight."

"I can allow that," Martin says. Tim is already digging through his wallet to pay their bill.

It would be too much to expect that they could make it all the way back to Tim's flat without misbehaving. They’re barely out the door before Tim has a hand in the back pocket of Martin’s jeans, and Martin responds by wrapping an arm tight around Tim’s shoulders, and neither of them says anything about it as they continue walking. There’s a slight chill in the air and the closeness warms them.

On the tube, Martin remains standing. It’s a short enough ride, and he only needs to glance at Tim’s face to see that he’s just waiting for an opportunity to show off. He’ll find a way regardless, but Martin thinks it’s best not to give him any obvious openings, such as an empty lap just waiting to be sat on. There are a few other people on the train, a good distance away and minding their own business, but Martin’s still apprehensive. It’s a holdover from his adolescence, the instinct to make himself invisible in public, to never draw any kind of attention to himself, especially not the kind of attention that two men being overly affectionate on the tube can garner.

Tim is visibly put out about it, pouting up at Martin as he leans against him with almost his whole weight, but he doesn’t say anything, because he understands. They’ve talked about it, of course they have, they’ve talked about everything. Martin smiles at him, a placating, apologetic thing, and rubs a broad palm up and down his back, under his jacket but over his shirt, and Tim nuzzles his head against Martin’s chest, a pleased little hum escaping him.

When they finally stumble through the door and into Tim’s flat, they don’t feel particularly inclined to break the silence they’ve been marinating in for a while. They don’t need words to communicate, this is all second nature to them by now: they toe their shoes off by the door, make their way to the bedroom, brush their teeth together because Martin is a stickler for oral hygiene. They change out of their work clothes and into their sleep clothes – both of them in Martin’s pajamas, because Martin has a drawer in Tim’s dresser and Tim feels comfortable and safe in his clothes.

Martin tries to ignore the way Tim watches him as he undresses, tries to avoid watching him back, but there’s an almost palpable heat crackling in the air between them. It’s too much space, they’re too far away from each other. As soon as he’s dressed for bed, Martin closes the distance without thinking, like being pulled by a magnetic force, and Tim hardly has time to look up at his face before Martin is kissing him.

“I thought you said,” Tim pants against Martin’s lips when he pulls away, “not to get any ideas.”

“You didn’t get any ideas,” Martin replies simply. “I did.”

Tim gives him a show stopping smile, bright and crooked and beautiful. “You’re going to  _ give  _ me ideas,” he warns in a low voice. “I’m going to catch them from you, like cooties.”

Martin laughs at that under his breath, but he leans in to kiss Tim again, slow and deep and easy, and steers them toward the bed. “Here’s my idea,” he says, his diplomatic tone belied by his breathlessness and his flushed cheeks. “I’m going to kiss you a lot. And then we’re going to go to sleep, because we’re both drunk, and tired, and to be quite honest, sex seems like a lot of work right now. And we can see how we feel in the morning, though I’m fairly sure I know how  _ I’ll  _ feel, at least. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah,” Tim answers, nodding almost frantically. “That’s a very good idea.”

“That’s what I thought,” Martin says with a grin. 

He plants one hand flat on the bed beside Tim’s shoulder, the other cradling Tim’s cheek, and tilts his face up to catch his lips again. The kiss is hungry, passionate, but unhurried, all lingering touches and mingled breaths and just the barest hint of teeth grazing lips. Tim makes the prettiest noises when Martin kisses him, breathy little whimpers against his lips.

At some point, Tim manages to flip them over so that he’s straddling Martin’s waist and leaning down to kiss him, rather than the other way around. It feels like an escalation, but it isn’t. Tim is, as always, incredibly respectful of Martin’s wishes, and Martin finds himself a bit overwhelmed when he thinks about it too hard, but he can’t stop thinking about it. 

He doesn’t even realize that he’s crying until Tim pulls away from him, leaving his lips tingling, and gives him a look of profound concern. Martin sniffs, takes his hands from Tim’s hips to wipe the tears from his cheeks, tries to come up with something to say – to let Tim know that he’s fine, that there’s nothing to worry about, that he would really like to get back to the kissing – but comes up empty handed. 

“Martin?” Tim prods gently, after he’s been quiet for too long. “What’s up, babe?”

“Nothing, I’m okay,” Martin replies reflexively, but Tim looks at him with an oddly persuasive mixture of sympathy and sternness, and he cracks faster than he’d prefer to admit. “I just – you’re so…” he pauses to swallow thickly before continuing, “You’re so good to me, too good to me. It’s a lot to handle. But it’s good, obviously it’s good! I appreciate it, and I appreciate you, I’m just – you know. I’m being stupid, it’s fine.”

“You’re not being stupid,” Tim tells him firmly, “and I’m  _ not  _ too good to you. I only ever treat you exactly the way you ought to be treated. What brought this on?”

That brings fresh tears to Martin’s eyes and they spill over, hot on his face. “I was just thinking – God, it’s  _ so  _ stupid – you were making those noises and I was thinking that I got you all worked up for nothing and you shouldn’t have to hold back like that for me, you know?”

After a pause, Tim pulls back further, climbs off of Martin and settles beside him in a better position for conversation. “Are you saying you feel guilty for not having sex with me?”

Martin has to process the question, realizing that it sounds even sillier when said out loud than it feels in his head, but then he gives a short nod of his head. “I mean… a bit, yeah? But also just – I don’t know, everything about you. That conversation we had earlier got me in my head, and it’s – it’s not your fault, I started it, I was being… you know. You’re fantastic and I don’t even  _ know  _ what I am and I’m sorry you have to put up with me.”

Tim laughs at that, quietly, but immediately catches himself and cuts it off. He scoots in close enough that his lips brush against Martin’s skin as he speaks, low and fierce. “Martin, you’re drunk,” he points out to start. “It’s okay for you to feel that way, really it is, but you’re catastrophizing because you’re drunk, and I need you to know that the thing you’re upset about is not nearly as awful as it feels, alright?” 

He presses a lingering kiss to Martin’s collarbone, waits for the squeaky hum of acknowledgment before he continues, “I don’t  _ have to put up with you. _ I like you. You’re Martin, my best friend in the world, and no part of what we have is a drawback.”

“Are you sure?” Martin asks, his voice small. “I just… I think you’re wrong about me. I mean, you’re right – you know everything about me, you told me all those things earlier and it was all true, I guess, but I think you’re wrong about – wanting to stick around.”

“I  _ am  _ sure, and I’m  _ not  _ wrong,” Tim states in a tone that brooks no argument. “Are you going to call me a liar, or are you going to let me hold you so you can calm down and fall asleep?”

Martin frowns deeply, his brow furrowed, as he makes a futile effort to find a way to contradict Tim’s steadfast conviction. Another time, he might be able to keep fighting, might be self-sabotaging enough to keep pushing, but he’s drunk and exhausted and he really doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight and he’s convinced that if he insists on arguing the point, Tim will just give up on him and leave, which would prove him right, but would also break his heart.

It doesn’t occur to him in his state that they are, in fact, at Tim’s place, and it would be ridiculous for Tim to leave and him to stay. It also doesn’t occur to him for even a second that Tim might be right, or that he might be willing to stay for as long as it takes to convince Martin of that fact.

After a long period of contemplation, he huffs out a little frustrated breath, mumbles a sleepy “Thank you.” 

Tim smiles, a soft thing, not the triumphant told-you-so grin that he loves to wield against Martin, but like he’s just genuinely pleased. He kisses the corner of Martin’s mouth tenderly, then the tip of his nose, and then Martin decides to roll over onto his other side so that Tim can hold him, be the big spoon, just like he asked. That gets him another kiss, this time pressed to the side of his neck as Tim wraps an arm around him.

The last thing Martin registers before he falls asleep is Tim’s hand flat against his chest, Tim’s breathing in his ear, and the feeling, underneath all his anxiety and embarrassment, of being safe and wanted.


End file.
